Chapter Nineteen

With the hand of Empress Elandra clamped firmly in his, Caelan pushed himself deeper into severance to heighten his senses, but also to protect himself against the distraction she presented.

He hurried her along the passageway, questing constantly for trouble, more aware than she of how much danger they were in. She obviously believed the palace was still held by the guards, but Caelan knew differently. Most of the Imperial Guard on duty inside the palace itself were now dead, killed by poison or in savage hand-to-hand fighting.

Worst of all were the traitors, guardsmen who had joined Tirhin at the last minute, turning unexpectedly on their comrades to slay them before running to the ranks of the Madruns. At this stage, it was nearly impossible to tell friend from foe. Many of the traitors wore the empress’s gold colors, and a few minutes before when Caelan had seen her standing trustingly next to a Gold guardsman, his heart had stopped. He expected to see her die of a quick knife thrust then and there, but the man had been loyal. He might well be the last loyal Gold alive.

So much betrayal... with every stride, Caelan’s fury beat harder. Who had convinced the emperor the Madrun invaders had been turned back? Who had told him such lies? And why had the emperor believed them despite clear warnings?

The truth was, the Madruns had swept across the borders exactly as Tirhin had worked out. All the daily dispatches received by the emperor this week, including those brought by the Thyzarene, held false reports, which meant this plot had pervaded the government in every corner of the empire.

Kostimon’s throne had seemed secure, but it wasn’t. How many men had plotted with Tirhin, silently shifting over to his side while concealing their change of loyalties? Who had counseled the emperor to be merciful toward his son and not punish him for his betrayal?

That night in the dungeons, the emperor had believed what Caelan told him. Caelan had seen it in the man’s eyes. Moreover, the emperor knew his son had conspired years before, in an earlier, abortive plot. Yet this week he did not even attempt to punish Tirhin, much less stop him. Gault above, how many warnings did a man require before he would listen?

It was like the last days of E’nonhold again, when Caelan had begged his father to arm the hold and stand prepared in case of attack. Ample warnings of Thyzarene raiding had come, but Beva E’non wouldn’t listen. And in the end, everyone in the hold had been either slaughtered or carried off into slavery by the Thyzarenes.

Now it was the same thing happening again, only on a bigger scale.

Caelan felt his emotions surging up, threatening his control. He swore beneath his breath. He could not think about the past, and should not think about the present. What mattered right now was getting out of here alive.

He saw fire raging ahead, blocking the passageway. Caelan turned back to take another route. He did not know his way well, but he had a good sense of direction even in this maze of rooms and passages. He did not fear becoming lost.

Indeed, he must not fail his duties tonight, for entrusted to him by the fates was the largest responsibility he had known since he abandoned his little sister at the ice caves.

Caelan glanced down at the empress, hurrying breathlessly along at his side. She must be tiring, but she did not complain. There was fear in her face, but courage also. He noticed the dagger she clutched, and he admired her determination to survive.

Even now he still felt like the biggest fool alive for how he’d acted toward her the other day in Agel’s quarters. Like an idiot, he had refused to believe she was the empress, when he knew nothing about it. And then to come face to face with her again the day she chose a protector ... he had been mortified with no means of apologizing to her. She could have destroyed him that day with a word of complaint to the emperor, but she did not.

She had not chosen him as her protector either, but that had been a relief. He would have felt obliged to crawl on his belly for her forgiveness, and he did not want that. He’d swallowed enough humiliations for a lifetime. Nor did he have any wish to be a lapdog protector tagging at the heels of his mistress. All he wanted was to be a simple soldier, fighting the enemy, far from intrigues and hidden motives.

Still, despite everything, here she was in his keeping tonight. His fear was like a lump of ice in his gut. What if he failed to save her, the way he’d failed Lea?

He’d seen the relief and trust in her Majesty’s eyes when he’d walked up tonight. In that moment he had felt a strange weakness flood his loins, and he would have lain down his life for hers.

It was strange, this desire to guard and protect her. He had felt nothing akin to this since he’d lost Lea, and yet this woman was completely unlike his sister.

It was not really for the sake of her beauty. He had seen beautiful faces before. Nor did it have much to do with how fierce her eyes could be one moment or how vulnerable they turned the next.

No, it was her courage he admired. Her steely determination. Her resolute ability to face facts, no matter how unpleasant. She did not wail and weep, wringing her hands and demanding rescue.

Somehow she had fought off the attack of the shadows, and she had searched until she found men to help her. She was far from helpless, and he valued that more than he could describe.

Besides, above all else, she was empress sovereign, ruler of this land after the emperor himself. She could not be lost, must not be lost. She represented order and stability. Along with the emperor, she was the empire. And as such, she constituted its most precious resource.

But why was he the only one who realized it?

Caelan’s anger boiled hotter, and he quickened his pace until she was almost running to keep up.

“Please,” she said, panting.

His gaze flicked to hers. “Your pardon,” he murmured, and slowed down for a moment, only to unconsciously speed up again as his sense of urgency grew.

He had seen the panicky chancellors milling around; had seen the emperor protest one last time, then give in to their entreaties with an expression of bleak despair. Even now the man was probably mounting his horse at the stables, seizing his final opportunity to escape this carnage, with no thought at all for the wife he was leaving behind.

Not once had Elandra’s name been mentioned in all the chaos. Not once had Caelan overheard the emperor ask about her. Was the man that shallow, that selfish, that he could forget her?

Caelan’s fingers tightened on hers. It was insupportable, this cowardice, and he vowed that he would not let the emperor abandon her.

“Hurry,” he urged her when she flagged.

She nodded, looking pale with fatigue, and quickened her pace obediently again.

They hastened down a flight of stairs and rounded a corner, only to come face to face with a small band of roving Madruns.

Caelan plunged to a halt so abruptly the empress bumped into him. He ignored her, ignored how she involuntarily clutched at his sleeve with a tiny gasp.

Dismay surged into his throat like sour bile. He hadn’t heard these three, hadn’t even sensed them. Were they shielded within some kind of spell, that they could pass like shadows?

They looked equally startled. The Madruns wore heavy leather breastplates and loin straps. Their bare legs were black with dried mire to the knees, and their weapons and arms were splattered with blood and gore. With their filed teeth and red eyes, clustered there in the gloom of the badly lit passageway, they were creatures from a nightmare.

Everyone stood momentarily frozen; then the Madruns’ gazes fell on Elandra, and they grinned.

The primal lust in their savage faces enraged Caelan. He shoved the empress back from him, hard enough to almost overbalance her, and faced them with both his sword and dagger drawn.

Gathering up her skirts, Elandra scrambled back up the steps to give him maneuvering room. He had one last glimpse of her white, fearful face before he gave all his attention to the Madruns.

They shrilled out war cries and attacked together, three against one. Undaunted by the odds, Caelan threw his dagger, quick and hard. It hit its target in the foremost man’s eye, quivering there as it penetrated his brain.

Screaming, the Madrun fell back, momentarily blocking the progress of the other two. Caelan charged them, swinging his sword up and across in a swipe that just missed decapitating the one on the left. Following through with his swing, he aimed it at the second man, who ducked and stumbled back with a howl.

Caelan stepped back in a half-pivot and parried the sword of the man on his left, now bleeding copiously from the wound at the base of his neck. Caelan hopped nimbly over the body of the fallen Madrun and forced his opponents down the stairs with a brutal, driving attack.

The passageway was too narrow for him to use his sword to its fullest extent. Hampered by the close quarters and lack of sufficient maneuvering room, he had to adjust his swing to avoid nicking his blade on the stone walls. However, neither could the Madruns circle behind him the way they so obviously wanted. He knew well their pattern of attack fighting: outnumber, surround, and maul.

The Madruns were equipped with shorter swords, designed for thrusting and fighting hand to hand. Under Caelan’s attack, they fell back once more, then held their position shoulder to shoulder before him. Caelan fought them together, his blows driven by the sense of time running out. Every moment he delayed here kept him from his objective and put the empress in greater danger of being left behind.

His longer reach enabled him to finally slide over the guard of the bleeding man on the left. Caelan’s sword ripped open the man’s chest. The Madrun croaked out a final incomprehensible word of defiance, probably a curse, and fell.

The remaining one screamed defiance and charged, but Caelan had seen that move before. He ducked recklessly under the man’s arm and spitted him full length on his sword.

The Madrun’s eyes flew open wide. He stared at Caelan in disbelief; then blood filled his mouth, and he sank into death.

Caelan pulled free his sword and wiped it clean on the man’s back.

Straightening, breathing hard, he slung sweat from his eyes and glanced over his shoulder.

His eyes met those of the girl’s. Hers were clear, horrified, and steady.

“Come,” he said.

She hurried to him, sidestepping the dead men without hesitation, and took his hand again. “Well done,” she said, and only the breathlessness of her voice betrayed how fearful she’d been.

It was a warrior’s compliment she gave, and her understated praise pleased him. He wondered where she had learned to do that. Perhaps from her warlord father. Perhaps she, alone of all the women he had met, understood what it meant to glory in the combat, yet to suffer for the aftermath of death and silence.

“We must hurry” was all he said as he swung away from the fallen men. He would not grieve for this enemy.

Together, he and the empress hastened onward.

A few minutes later, he pushed through a door and stumbled outside into the darkness. Barrels, stone amphoras, and casks filled the area. Dragging in a deep breath, Caelan looked around to get his bearings. They were somewhere along the rear of the palace, on the northwestern side, close to the delivery entrances for provisions. The mighty walls of the compound towered above him, seemingly invincible, their dark sides reaching up to the inky sky.

But no matter how thick or how high the walls, if the gates were opened, they counted not at all.

Caelan swung left, pulling her after him. “This way,” he whispered.

They ran down an alley stacked with barrels and crates, half-seen obstacles in the darkness.

At the corner, however, torchlight flared orange in the distance, and behind them tongues of fire began to lick at upper-story windows.

Caelan plunged to a halt and peered around the corner. The parade ground stretched out ahead of him on his left, a vast distance filled with a melee of fighting men. The sight heartened him. If the Guard could hold the Madruns here, there was a chance of regaining the palace.

But right now, that was not his concern. He swung his gaze right, toward the stables, and saw bunches of Madruns trotting past. Fire could be seen blazing through the windows, and there came the neighs of panicked horses.

Elandra clutched at his cloak, her shoulder brushing against his armored back. “You said the stables,” she told him. “How can we reach them?”

Caelan shook his head. “Too late. The emperor is gone.”

“But—”

A wave of sudden exhaustion, borne by defeat, rolled over him. He pushed it off and measured the distance to the stables with his eye, only to swear in frustration. Impossible to get there with so many of the enemy around.

“I will leave you here,” he said, thinking aloud. “If I can get a horse, there is still—”

“No,” the empress said firmly. “They will kill you.”

“But—”

“Look at the main gates,” she said, pointing. “Can we ride through them even if you did get horses?”

He turned his head and saw the massive bronze gates shining in the light of the bonfires and burning barracks. A group of guardsmen fought valiantly there, but they were outnumbered. As Caelan watched, screaming Madruns cut down the guardsmen and swarmed at the gates, pushing them open.

Caelan’s breath caught in his throat. He stared in horror as more Madrun troops poured in from outside.

It was over. The few pockets of resistance remaining in the compound would be hunted down soon enough. Already the enemy was running, swarming inside with their weapons held aloft in victory. They howled strange war cries that sent chills up the back of Caelan’s neck.

He growled in his throat, gripping his sword tighter.

Beside him, Elandra was weeping. “Oh, Gault, no ... no!” she cried softly.

Caelan knew an insane urge to run full tilt out into the open and attack as many as he could, to kill and slash and destroy. Then he withdrew from the corner and pressed his back against the wall, breathing hard as he fought the se-vaisin. To surrender to his grief and outrage, to go mad and fight now, was to die.

And he did not intend to be defeated—or killed—yet.

“It is over,” Elandra said in a disbelieving whisper. “We are finished.”

“No, there is still a chance,” he said. He pressed his fingers to her lips when she tried to protest. “Hush. Don’t argue. We must hurry.”

When he pulled on her hand, she hung back. “I will die if I run much farther.”

Caelan had no patience with that. “You’ll die for certain if you don’t. Now come!”

“But where can we go?”

He pointed at the dark and silent temples at the far end of the compound. The looting had not reached them yet; perhaps the superstitious Madruns were avoiding them for now. Caelan knew there were underground chambers beneath the temples, at least the Temple of Gault. They could take refuge there. If nothing else, it would buy them some time until he figured out a plan.

The empress gave him a nod, her protests stilled.

Keeping to the shadows at the base of the walls, he trotted along as fast as he dared, freezing in place each time he spied another band of Madruns. More of them were scattering from the general conflict, intent on pillaging and destroying. Many carried torches, and they were laughing, talking loudly and arrogantly in their native tongue.

The riches waiting for them inside the palace clearly had them distracted, although as yet several were busy using their daggers to perform atrocities on the corpses of the fallen guardsmen. More than once Caelan tried to shield the empress from witnessing these horrors, but it was impossible. She made no sound, no outcry. When he glanced at her through the gloom, he saw only the pale blur of her face.

They crept on, hurrying as fast as they dared while keeping to the scant cover available. The darkness was their ally, and the farther they ran from the palace, the less torchlight and firelight there was to expose them.

Caelan found himself wishing for an army to command. If only he could wing his thoughts to the imperial troops camped and deployed elsewhere in the empire. If only he could bend the mysterious forces of time and distance to his will, and bring them here—instantly.

He would have given his soul right then to be able to turn the tables on these brutes and crush them. But the main army was far away, and only the Imperial Guard was stationed here. Now that esteemed fighting force lay massacred.

Stupid, Caelan thought, the word beating in his temples like his pulse. Stupid. Stupid.

But he was not the Lord Commander of the armies. He was not the one responsible for the deployment of troops.

He was not the one who had declined to bring extra protection back to the capital city.

In the distance the screaming of men and women told Caelan of more horrors. He resisted the urge to look back, but the empress stopped and stared over her shoulder.

“The servants,” she whispered in anguish. “The courtiers. My ladies—”

“Don’t,” he told her, tugging at her hand. “Hurry.”

It was a long way around the perimeter of the walls. The farther they went, the more exposed and vulnerable Caelan felt. The edges of his consciousness sensed dangers lurking in the darkness around him, dangers not of this world, dangers he could not fight with sword and strength. Dry-mouthed, Caelan tried to shut off his own imagination. But for the first time in years, he longed for warding keys. The darkness cloaked him and the empress, but it was no friend.

Praying under his breath, he kept moving, refusing to let fear stop him.

At last, the grouping of temples loomed ahead, silent and unlit, ignored by the combat at the other end of the compound. To reach the Temple of Gault, Caelan would have to run across the open. He hesitated, caught between the steady trickle of time and the intense need for caution.

Beside him, Elandra sank to her knees, sobbing for air. Yet her grip never slackened on his. “The Penestrican temple is closest,” she whispered.

“Are there underground chambers, for the secret rites?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

He considered it, a trifle uneasy about invading the sanctum of the women priestesses. He knew nothing about the Penestricans, save that they were barely tolerated officially. The cults surrounding the earth mother were very primitive and old. He shivered a little, but hesitated no longer.

“We’ll go there,” he said.

Looking in all directions, his heart in his mouth, he led her out from cover and ran across the open distance. Overhead, the clouds parted to release a finger of moonlight along the steps. Caelan loped up them, two at a time, the empress’s feet pattering swiftly beside his.

They reached the top, darting past the columns, and he lunged across the vestibule for the inky shadows behind the altar. Slinging the empress around it, he crouched beside her and pressed his sweating face against the gritty stone side of the altar. His breath came in loud, hoarse gusts. The empress had doubled over, pressing her face against her skirts, but still he could hear her muffled sobbing and panting.

He listened hard, every sense straining, but heard no sound of discovery or pursuit.

They had made it.

His taut shoulders sagged in relief, and he rolled his head back against the stone. Time to take stock. How long could they reasonably expect to hide?

There was a chance they might elude discovery altogether, especially if there were numerous hiding places below the temple, and depending on the degree of Madrun superstition and caution.

But what good was hiding? And how long could they last without food and water? Caelan knew he could hold out for several days. The empress was another matter. If they starved beneath the ground, what was accomplished except they did not die by Madrun hands?

Again, he drove such defeatist thoughts away. His goal was to keep this woman alive and well. Thus far, he had done that. If the gods were kind, he would find a way to get her out of here. Every moment of survival he carved out gave them a better chance.

Regaining his breath, he touched her arm gently. “Come.”

She rose to her feet, although she swayed in his hold. Worried about her, he let her lead the way to the temple’s entry.

A stout door of thick wood blocked the way. Though he put all his strength against it, it would not budge. Refusing to let a mere lock stop him, Caelan traced the metal with his fingertips, intending to pick it with the empress’s dagger.

But intense heat seared into his fingertips.

Biting back a cry of pain, Caelan jerked his hand away.

“What happened?” Elandra asked. “What’s wrong?”

Grimly he reached out again. Once more, his hand was repelled by a blast of heat.

He stepped back, wary and respectful now, and nursed his aching fingers.

“What’s the matter?” Elandra asked insistently.

“It is spell-locked,” he replied, flexing his hand. Although his fingers still hurt, there was no actual burn. “We cannot enter.”

She drew in her breath audibly. “Even here, so close to the palace, the sisters fear desecration of the sacred places. By order of the emperor they are not permitted to keep this temple open, and so when they leave they lock it tight. It is a pity—”

“Pity for us,” he said angrily. “We are denied refuge.”

“Then we’ll go to Gault,” she retorted. “The Vindicants are always here. Surely it is open, unless the priests are cowards and have locked themselves inside.”

He thought of the Vindicants, thought of Lord Sien, who was one of the traitors. “I do not think they will give us the help we want.”

“Where, then, will we go?” she demanded. “To the treasuries? They will be looted. The priests are our last hope.”

“Sien cannot be trusted.”

“No one can be trusted,” she said. Turning from him, she started down the steps alone.

The moonlight shone across her, and she hadn’t even noticed. Swearing to himself, Caelan ran after her and shoved her to one side of the steps.

“Take care,” he whispered furiously.

She stiffened under his hand, but did not waste her breath arguing.

Together they hurried to the imposing, larger temple, standing tall against the night sky. Its auxiliary buildings, containing living quarters and instructional rooms, stretched out behind it. Caelan considered circling around to the back and entering that way, but Elandra still hastened a step or two in front of him.

Picking up her skirts, she went up the wide marble steps with confidence. Caelan followed, watching for trouble, knowing they could be walking into a trap yet having no alternative to offer.

At the top, he moved ahead of her, keeping his arm outstretched to hold her back, and went first to the door.

Its lock was normal. No spell protected it. Caelan fitted the dagger’s tip into the keyhole. A stiletto would have served his purpose better, but he had no such weapon.

Crouching there in the darkness, working by feel, the sweat of urgency running down his temples, Caelan felt the hand of the empress close upon his upper arm.

It was a silent warning. He reacted without looking, whipping his sword off his knees and coming up and around in one swift movement of defense.

The moonlight shone full upon the steps now, lighting their pale marble surface in silvery radiance. Skimming upward over the steps came the shadows of men, only no men walked the ground to cast them.

Caelan’s blood congealed in his veins. Staring in astonishment and rising dread, he straightened fully upright, and for a moment his grip slackened on his sword. Although the empress had described these shadows to him previously, nothing she had said truly prepared him for the horror of seeing them coming so fast and silently.

He took one cautious step back, retreating deeper into the dark, and brought up his sword.

The empress did not retreat, however. Fumbling at the bodice of her gown, she drew out something secured on a cord about her neck. “Hurry and break the lock,” she said softly. “I’ll try to hold them off.”

He stared at her, wondering what kind of talisman she held. “Do you have a warding key?”

“What is that?” she asked, then gestured at him. “Hurry! You cannot fight them with swords. I told you. Get the door open as soon as you can.”

But Caelan knew that doors would not protect them from the unbound shadows of men. Even if they got inside, these creatures would follow. He shivered involuntarily and braced himself for the fight to come.

A faint golden glow appeared on Elandra’s palm. He looked and saw that she was holding a large, square-cut jewel, and it was emitting the light. Astonishment spread through Caelan. He had not realized she possessed powers of her own.

Above the light spreading out from her hands, Elandra’s face looked set and purposeful. She raised her hands to cast the light from the jewel a little farther, and the racing shadows stopped and curled back from the light as though burned.

Inside his amulet pouch, Caelan’s fused emeralds grew warm against his chest. They had warned and protected him before. Now he marveled to see that the empress carried something similar. Even better, she knew how to utilize the powers within hers. Although he was long familiar with the magical ability of his emeralds to conceal their true shape and worth from the eyes of other men, Caelan had never dreamed his emeralds contained a force such as this. He had kept them all these years as a token of hope, as a reminder of his little sister. But perhaps they had other uses.

The shadows raced around behind him, and Elandra turned quickly in a small circle, casting the golden glow over both Caelan and herself. She was using her jewel exactly like a warding key. Its light kept the shadows back, although Caelan could feel danger pulsing at him. The shadows were vicious, angry, and intent on their prey. He could almost sense thought in them, a simple, hammering thrust of purpose—kill, kill, kill.

The heat cast by his emeralds intensified to an almost unbearable degree beneath his breastplate. Tempted to draw them forth and join their power to that of Elandra’s jewel, Caelan tugged at the cord around his throat; then the corner of his eye caught movement to one side.

He plunged deep into severance, and pivoted sideways quicker than thought.

The thrown dagger came hurtling through the air, plunging through the spot where he’d been standing only a split second before. It thunked into the wooden panels of the door and quivered there.

“What—” Elandra cried.

In her startlement, she let her hands drop. The circle of light dipped low, and in that instant one of the shadows leaped at her.

She fell back, screaming.

Caelan’s arm went around her, and he dragged her close even as she kicked and screamed against the onslaught of the shadow. The thing seemed wrapped around her throat. Caelan could hear her choking.

He shifted to sevaisin and found nothing to join with. The shadow had no substance, no existence of its own. Caelan caught only a faint effusion of someone else ... a man familiar, yet no one he could recognize. It was like looking at a reflection in a pool of water, hazy and indistinct. In frustration, Caelan sought to join with the source of the shadow.

And found himself suddenly sucked into a tide pool of surging emotions, hatreds, vile passions, and perversions. Overwhelmed by the fury of them, Caelan temporarily lost himself. He was being sucked in ... he was becoming ... he was one with ...

“No!” he shouted, and severed.

The shadow screamed in his mind, a mortal cry that went through him like a knife plunge. Freed of that which had controlled it and had tried to control him, Caelan came to himself with an abrupt jolt.

He found himself on his knees at the top of the temple steps. The moonlight bathed him in silvery radiance and coated his sword where he had dropped it. The empress lay on the stones, unconscious or dead, he did not know.